


Purpose

by vailkagami



Series: Within the Dissolve [3]
Category: Dark Souls (Video Games), Dark Souls I
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Gen, M/M, References to Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-05
Updated: 2017-11-05
Packaged: 2019-01-29 23:14:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12641274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vailkagami/pseuds/vailkagami
Summary: Ornstein and Artorias, Gwyn and Lordran at the beginning of the end.Set afterNightfall.





	Purpose

The sun gleamed off the metal of Ornstein's armor, the way it always did. It bathed the streets of Anor Londo in bright golden light, the way it always did. Ornstein thought of the night, and then of Artorias' abandoned hut in the dark woods and then of nothing. He looked down from the edge of the plaza near the path to the Duke's archives, and thought that the streets far below looked empty. Anor Londo was a large city, but it seemed like the part of it that was actually inhabited grew smaller and smaller with every year that passed.

It was hard to tell how time passed in a city where the sun never set and the seasons never changed.

The tower of the archives gleamed in the sunlight as well, far above and silent. Ornstein was just returning from the retreat of the dragon Seath who had betrayed his own kind for Gwyn long ago and been rewarded with dukedom for it. Rumors were circulating around the city and the surrounding land, about towering figures abducting people who were never seen again afterward. Their description matched the sorcerers Duke Seath employed in his archives, who were to assist him with his research. No one knew what that research looked like. Questions were being asked now, in the face of the stories of terrible experiments performed on innocent victims inside that tower. It was Ornstein's ambition to disprove those rumors and put the minds of the people at ease. But the archive had not been opened for him any more than it had been for anyone else for a long time, and he was able to disprove nothing.

Lord Gwyn would know what was going on in there. At the very least, he had the power to find out. Any accusation made towards Seath was an accusation towards Gwyn, of participating in horrible things or at the very least tolerating them. It angered Ornstein, but it also worried him. Unrest grew all over the land when the lords that had protected their people for an age were no longer seen as forces of good. They were losing the respect of the humans, and if they did that, the humans would inevitably turn against them. And Gwyn seemed not to care.

It had been a long time since the Lord on Sunlight had last taken action to assure his subjects. He shrugged off the rumors and had appeared disinterested in the reports of unrest. He never questioned Seath and discouraged everyone else from doing so as well.

But a month ago he had a falling out with his old friend and confident Havel, when Havel had voiced his dislike of Seath a little too loudly. Gwyn attributed Havel's behavior to the human having been branded with the darksign of the undead that was befalling more and more of his kin and blamed it for his friend's mind slipping. No one else had dared to say anything since.

No one had seen Princess Gwynevere for half a year. She had left the city without ceremony or warning, and Ornstein had heard that she have moved to live in the land of her husband and raise a family of her own. He hoped it was true. But even if it was, what had caused her to leave like that?

There were many secrets and unanswered questions these days.

The only people he met on his way to the elevator going down to the lower level were soldiers. Down there, a priest and a priestess could be seen standing near the entrance to the chapel. This area was not open to all of the public, but it was impossible to overlook how not a single person appeared to be here who was not bound to this place by some sort of duty.

Two sentinels stood left and right of the entrance to the cathedral, as always, but Ornstein was surprised and concerned to see two more on the other side of the gate, and two of Gough's archers up the stairs leading to the gallery. Had he not been here only days ago? What had changed so quickly, and how had he not learned of it?

Was he relying too much on others to tell him things, blind to things he did not want to see?

He would ask Gough, as soon as he could. His old friend was retreating more and more these days, no longer seen in the capital more often than Artorias was, but he would know what was going on, and would tell Ornstein even if their lord didn't think it necessary to inform him. Surely it was nothing important. It they were at risk of another unrest or an attack from the outside, as ludicrous as that idea was, Ornstein _would_ know.

He could ask Ciaran, but he would rather not talk to her, and she would be selective in the information she shared.

Or perhaps Lord Gwyn had summoned him just now to simply tell him what was happening and what they were to do about it. Ornstein wondered how bad things had gotten that he only now considered this possibility, and that the idea nearly made him snort.

The soldiers guarding the throne room bowed ever so slightly as he walked past them. No one stopped him as he approached the gate, so it was acceptable to simply come in, but Ornstein wondered about the doors. They used to be open at almost all times, unless officials from different parts of their land came on official business. Lately, they rarely were.

Ornstein pushed the infused wood open quietly and slipped inside, closing the heavy door behind him to deny anyone standing outside insight into whatever it was Gwyn did not want them to see. There were no officials present. The only person in the room besides their lord was Artorias, kneeling in front of the throne and Lord Gwyn with his helmet off and his hood down, and Ornstein, who had not known he was in Anor Londo for the first time since that day in the woods, stayed near the door and watched in silence as Gwyn placed a hand on Artorias' cheek and looked at him with infinite sadness in his eyes.

The look and gesture took Ornstein by surprise. Perhaps it should not – Gwyn had always held Artorias in the highest regard and cared deeply for him – but it was him who could have prevented this and he had chosen not to, and Ornstein could not forget that even before these events, their lord had been all too willing to unleash his cruelty on this knight he loved so much.

He had not forgiven yet, he found. He could not forget the crowd in the sunlight, the sight of Artorias utterly still in Gough's arms, or Sif so frantic and useless beside him. What right did Gwyn have to be sad?

Artorias pulled his hood back up before he stood and turned, denying Ornstein a glimpse of his face. He stood silent as Gwyn beckoned the dragon slayer over to them. Sif was by his side as always, not carrying her sword but not looking very peaceful either. It was almost surprising that Gwyn had not made her wait outside. Perhaps this was a test.

She had bitten the serpent Frampt the last time they had encountered each other. There were times when Ornstein almost liked her.

“Gough and Ciaran will be here shortly,” Gwyn told Ornstein when he was close. Beside him, Artorias fitted his helmet back on his head. “I have important business to discuss with you all.”

  


-

  


The numbness that Ornstein had been feeling deep inside for so long now seemed to spread stronger yet. Everything was changing, everything was ending. He was beginning to understand how unprepared he was for that.

He had spoken to Gough after the meeting, but the giant had little to say. He spoke of the old times. It was all he seemed to do these days.

In his wing of the cathedral, Ornstein looked up. The stuffed and preserved heads of slain dragons looked down on him, speaking of the old times as well. There were days he was almost ashamed of the title that usually filled him with such pride. What place did a dragon slayer have in a world without dragons?

What was the purpose of a knight without a lord?

Artorias had been the first to leave, but Ornstein had seen Ciaran catch up with him. She had been angry with him for throwing himself into the Abyss the way he had, but now her mind seemed focused on other things. Ornstein did not try to catch their conversation, and they had quickly taken it elsewhere.

She was agitated, nervous. Of all of them she was the youngest, the only one who had specifically worked to get the standing she now had, and perhaps the one who had to work hardest to overcome all the prejudice caused by her physical appearance. He imagined she did not know how to adapt to the upcoming changes any more than he did.

Could it really be that soon, out of all of them Artorias, of all people, would be the only one who still had a purpose?

What would become of Anor Londo? What of Lordran? What was the purpose of preserving the world if the world was unrecognizable?

Ornstein realized he was being bitter. He still had a purpose, orders to be followed even in the absence of his lord. He would aid Gwyndolin, and would watch over Anor Londo as he always had. This was not an end. The lords had not yet abandoned this land, and he would prove that they never would.

For now, the sun was still shining its constant shine as if nothing was about to change. And yet it felt very late and Ornstein was very tired when he dragged himself up the stairs to his sleeping quarters. After a long minute of standing in front of the closed door in silent contemplation, he turned and walked to the other wing, where Artorias' quarters were located, now basically abandoned but never reassigned to anyone else. He did not knock before he tried the door and was not surprised to find Artorias next to the bed, in the process of taking off his armor. His presence in Anor Londo was required a little longer. It would be silly for him to spend the night anywhere else.

He looked over his shoulder once, then turned back to taking off the plated armor around his arms. Ornstein considered offering his assistance but did not. He had servants take off his own armor hours ago but was not surprised that Artorias opted to keep his on until he was alone.

“You should not be here,” Artorias said with his back to Ornstein, who shrugged, feeling bitter.

“Who will care?” he asked. “Where is Sif?”

“In the Royal Woods. I will meet her when I am done here.”

The linen shirt he wore underneath his armor was damp and he took it off now, revealing the narrow back and all the scars running across it. Dark, branching lines ran along his spine up to this neck, but for all that the Abyss had changed his appearance, it had not touched upon the marks his body already bore; Ornstein had not seen these since they were fresh and bleeding and the bitterness in him grew.

Moments later, Artorias had slipped a fresh shirt over his shoulders and the scars disappeared. He finally turned around and revealed the scars on the right side of his forehead, on his left cheek. They had been there as long as Ornstein remembered and were a comforting sight. The dark veins were not, nor the inky shadows underneath Artorias's eyes. He looked not much differed than the last time Ornstein had seen him. At least it did not appear to have gotten worse.

The lines around his mouth, however, spoke of a tension and hardship Ornstein could only speculate on.

“Have you made any progress?” he asked. “New Londo has been isolated. We hear little here.”

“I report to Lord Gwyn regularly, through messengers.”

“So _I_ don't hear much,” Ornstein amended, impatiently. They both knew he would if he wanted to.

“I have traversed the Abyss and fought off numerous Darkwraiths, but I have yet to find a way to the Four Kings. They appear to be hiding from me, and the Abyss is difficult to navigate. Whenever I feel I am getting close to them, hordes of their servants attack from the Dark until I have to retreat.”

“Surely their supply of servants is not limitless,” Ornstein pointed out. “At some point they will be left without protection.”

“I thought the same,” Artorias admitted. “And yet, their numbers do not appear to be dwindling. I do not know where all the new ones come from. What if for every Darkwraith I slay I doom one more human to the recruited into their ranks?”

Leave it to Artorias to worry about something like that. “If that were the case, do not worry about them. They gave themselves to the Dark willingly.”

“As did I.”

“There is no way to compare their willingness to yours,” Orstein snapped. He walked over to the other knight and placed a hand on his back, between his shoulder blades. Artorias froze in his movement; for a long time he sat as still as a stature, not even turning to look at the man who was by all rights his leader. Ornstein moved his fingers ever so slightly, felt the faint rise of scar tissue underneath the thin shirt. “Entering the Abyss,” he mused. “How does that feel?”

Artorias shuddered. Ornstein knew, perhaps as the only person in the world besides Sif, how much Artorias had been struggling with the mark the Abyss left on his soul even before he was able to truly touch it. The darkness it summoned inside him that he did not even understand. He had once compared it to a nightmare, but in a way that indicated he simply had no words to make Ornstein understand.

“Like erasure,” Artorias said now. He shrugged off Ornstein's hand and his angry concern with a casual gesture but added, “Like being replaced with something else that you do not want to be. It clings.” No one else would have gotten a reply this honest.

Ornstein did not pretend to understand. He remembered another night so long ago, when Artorias had been worn down by his exposure to the alien dark and had ended up trembling in Ornstein's arms, barely holding on to his composure once he had admitted to how much suffering dealing with the Dark brought him. Now, that memory brought another kind of suffering, surely for both of them, and Ornstein did not bring it up, nor did he try to touch Artorias again.

“Sif seems less affected,” the Abysswalker finally added. “She does not like it, but shakes it off easily. I suspect it has something to do with her more primal nature. There is something instinctual and almost pure about the Abyss that our minds cannot completely grasp.”

Ornstein shook his head. He had always felt that Artorias spend too much time thinking about these things. He had never been able to see the Abyss as simply a threat that needed to be stopped, although the dragon slayer admitted that being exposed to it like that probably made it impossible not to try to make sense of it. “How can Sif even join you? Did she enter a covenant as well?”

“I had the blacksmith create a ring for her. It is infused with the essence of Dark that clings to me since I joined them. It marks her as belonging to me and repels the Abyss enough for her to walk it.”

That was unexpected. “You are saying you can grant others the power to join you without ruining themselves forever? Anyone could come with you were they in possession of this ring? Even me?”

“No,” Artorias said, his voice hard. He looked at Ornstein now. “The Abyss is no place for you. And even if you could go there and still leave, it would not leave you alone ever again. Your place is here.”

“It seems to work for Sif.”

“Sif is completely different in nature. And like me, she has chosen this fight, and dedicated herself to it completely. You cannot do this by halves.”

Ornstein thought it was not the Abyss, it was staying by Artorias' side that the wolf had dedicated herself to. “You think I cannot do it?”

“I think you should not. It consumes you, and you are needed here.”

“For what?” Ornstein asked, bitterly. “To watch over an empty city? Serve an absent lord? How long do you think Anor Londo will have anything left to protect once Gwyn has left?”

“There are others here that will need you.”

“For how long?”

“It doesn't matter. As long as they are here, so you will be.”

Ornstein hated that he was right. As much as he was tempted by the notion of throwing himself into the Abyss with Artorias, he knew that there was nothing glorious or romantic about that in the end, and the very idea of touching that kind of darkness filled him with quiet horror.

If only he could make Artorias stop as well, and stay here in Anor Londo with him to watch their world die in peace. But it was far too late for that, and it never would have happened in the first place.

Artorias did no belong here anymore, if he ever had.

“Did you know?” Ornstein asked him. “About Lord Gwyn's decision to relight the First Flame himself?”

“I have not spoken to him since he allowed me to enter the Abyss.”

Ornstein did not fall for that wording. “I did not ask if he told you. I asked if you knew.”

Artorias was silent while he contemplated how much honesty he would bestow upon the reply to that question, and his silence was enough for Ornstein to know the answer.

“It did not surprise me,” Artorias finally said. “He can see this world fade the same as you. I have seen him contemplate his options – I believe this idea grew in him, perhaps, ever since the Witch tried to recreate a Flame of her own with her Lordsoul. It nearly worked, but the conduit was missing. Gwyn understood that, even when we were fighting her demons. I think it was only a matter of time for him to become desperate enough for this.”

Artorias was observant, regardless of how awkward he sometimes was with words and in dealing with people. For all that he preferred to be quiet, he was not stupid; Ornstein was not surprised he had seen this coming. A conversation from long ago came to mind, when Artorias had voiced, in not as many words, his fear that the Four Kings of New Londo would fall to the seduction of the Abyss. He had not been able to believe it himself, then, however – and now Ornstein wondered if his willingness to sacrifice himself to the same darkness the Kings had thrown themselves at came from guilt. He may have been able to protect the land from the nameless evil the Kings had turned into had only he struck them down when he still could.

(He would also be dead, then, as such treason could not go unpunished under any circumstances, but considering his acceptance to suffer a fate far worse, the dragon slayer doubted that would have stopped him.)

It had not entirely sunk into Ornstein's consciousness what was happening; what was going to happen. He would have to face it, on an emotional level, later. It was his duty to serve his lord, but also to protect him, and if Gwyn was going down a path that would certainly destroy him, at the very least Ornstein wanted to go it with him. But Lord Gwyn had made it very clear that he was to remain here, just as he had made it very clear that Artorias was to stop the spread of the Abyss at any cost.

It seemed that everyone was leaving with only Ornstein to stay behind. There was Gough, with the same vague mission to watch over Lordran, but the giant was more than content to leave this to his archers these days, merely accepting reports, rarely even making a decision for them. Not that there were many decisions left to be made. Perhaps a crisis would shake him out of the lethargy he had fallen into, but even of that Ornstein was not certain.

As for Ciaran, she would continue to lead her network of assassins and spies, and report to Ornstein if there was something he needed to know, but their duties rarely overlapped. And it was clear, though she never admitted to it, that she cared deeply for Artorias. In fact, Artorias may be the only one not aware of it. She blamed Ornstein for many things, and he had no time for her silent accusation.

“Do you truly believe the Abyss can be stopped?”

“No,” Artorias said; his honesty was not surprising, but the reply disconcerting non the less. “I hope I can contain it. I hope I can find the Kings and kill them, I hope it can be sealed away without sacrificing all of New Londo, but I don't know if I can do it, and I don't believe I can do it forever. It will always be back, somewhere. Perhaps...” He trailed off.

“Perhaps what?”

“Perhaps it has to do with the First Flame. The Abyss has resurfaced and gotten stronger the weaker the fire burns. Maybe it is merely a symptom of our age ending.”

Ornstein shuddered, though the thought held hope. “If Lord Gwyn links the fire, then, the Abyss would be driven back.”

Artorias said nothing in return. Obviously he did not share that hope.

“What of the humans? You say the Abyss is linked to them. Why not leave it to them to fight it? The Dark is part of their nature, after all. Surely they can bear it better than you can?”

“I wish it were that easy. But its closeness drives them mad. They are seduced by it or turned into wild beasts when their humanity runs wild. They cannot help me, or themselves.”

Everything about it sounded so hopeless. Ornstein could not understand why Artorias was fighting if he though there was no chance for victory. When he had asked him, the other knight had returned the question. 'Why not throw yourself off a cliff?' Perhaps, it seemed, he needed to examine his own motivation first.

Were they bound by nothing but duty to this earthly realm, like ghosts?

It was too soon to give up. Lord Gwyn had not yet left. Anor Londo was not yet empty, and Lordran had not yet forgotten them. Ornstein would not mourn his lord, or his city, or this man sitting before him, until they were gone.

He reached out his hand and let it brush, ever so slightly, across Artorias' cheek before he turned and left the room.

Although he was as tired as Artorias looked, he did not yet turn to his own room but ended up on the balcony overlooking the courtyard. The sun was bright, but at this time, most of the inhabitants of the cathedral were resting in their rooms. Even in a place like this, the day had to follow a certain rhythm, considering that certain people often were required to be awake at the same time.

Standing here, at this time, the place felt as if nothing had changed in centuries. Guards were flanking the door right below Ornstein, a group of three was walking across the yard in quiet conversation, and at the other end he saw the robes of a priest and the massive, golden armor of executioner Smough.

The man was wearing his full set, his face hidden behind the false visage of his helmet. The jovial mask was known to strike fear in the hearts of any who might be accused of any kind of crime. His cruelty was legendary, and while he was a capable and cunning fighter who had proven his bravery in many a fight, the faults in his personality had denied him a position any higher than what he held.

There had been talk, for a while, that he was to replace Artorias when it became known that the Abysswalker would not return to Anor Londo for good. It seemed ridiculous to Ornstein that it would even be considered and he had never paid attention to it. Honorable, selfless Artorias replaced with a man who prided himself with seasoning his food with the ground bones of his victims! He could not imagine _anyone_ would want that.

Except for Smough, of course. The executioner had aspired for a place among Gwyn's knights for many years. He had been passed over in favor of Artorias when they were formed, and again in favor of Ciaran, which had stung him even more.

Like Artorias and Ciaran, Smough had been loyal to Lord Gwyn during the unrest that had led to the appointment of their group, and he had clearly expected to be rewarded for it more than he had been. Regardless, he had never turned against Gwyn or his fellow knights, and Ornstein held a grudging respect for that. He still did not like to see the executioner anywhere near Artorias or Ciaran, knowing he resented them for having what he wanted. And Smough had already proven himself quite willing to hurt them if there was no reason not to.

The memory did nothing to lift Ornstein's mood. He finally walked back to his room, where he closed the curtains tightly and lay in the dark for hours, trying to sleep.

  



End file.
